"What's the story?" he asked.
"His name was Kramer," I said.
"I know that," Garber said. "I spoke to the police dispatcher after I spoke to you. What happened to him?"
"Heart attack," I said. "During consensual sex with a prostitute. In the kind of motel a fastidious cockroach would take pains to avoid."
There was a long silence.
"Shit," Garber said. "He was married."
"Yes, I saw his wedding band. And his West Point ring."
"Class of Fifty-two," Garber said. "I checked."
The phone went quiet.
"Shit," he said again. "Why do smart people pull stupid stunts like this?"
I didn't answer, because I didn't know.
"We'll need to be discreet," Garber said.
"Don't worry," I said. "The cover-up is already started. The locals let me send him to Walter Reed."
"Good," he said. "That's good." Then he paused. "From the beginning, OK?"
"He was wearing XII Corps patches," I said. "Means he was based in Germany. He flew into Dulles yesterday. From Frankfurt, probably. Civilian flight, for sure, because he was wearing Class As, hoping for an upgrade. He would have worn BDUs on a military flight. He rented a cheap car and drove two hundred ninety-eight miles and checked into a fifteen-dollar motel room and picked up a twenty-dollar hooker."
"I know about the flight," Garber said. "I called XII Corps and spoke with his staff. I told them he was dead."
"When?"
"After I got off the phone with the dispatcher."
"You tell them how or where he was dead?"
"I said a probable heart attack, nothing more, no details, no location, which is starting to look like a very good decision now."
"What about the flight?" I said.
"American Airlines, yesterday, Frankfurt to Dulles, arrived thirteen hundred hours, with an onward connection nine hundred hours today, Washington National to LAX. He was going to an Armored Branch conference at Fort Irwin. He was an Armored commander in Europe. An important one. Outside chance of making Vice-Chief of Staff in a couple of years. It's Armored's turn next, for Vice-Chief. Current guy is infantry, and they like to rotate. So he stood a chance. But it ain't going to happen for him now, is it?"
"Probably not," I said. "Being dead and all."
Garber didn't answer that.
"How long was he over here for?" I said.
"He was due back in Germany inside a week."
"What's his full name?"
"Kenneth Robert Kramer."
"I bet you know his date of birth," I said. "And where he was born."
"So?"
"And his flight numbers and his seat assignments. And what the government paid for the tickets. And whether or not he requested a vegetarian meal. And what exact room Irwin VOQ was planning on putting him in."
"What's your point?"
"My point is, why don't I know all that stuff too?"
"Why would you?" Garber said. "I've been working the phones and you've been poking around in a motel."
"You know what?" I said. "Every time I go anywhere I've got a wad of airplane tickets and travel warrants and reservations and if I'm flying in from overseas I've got a passport. And if I'm going to a conference I've got a briefcase full of all kinds of other crap to carry them in."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying there were things missing from the motel room. Tickets, reservations, passport, itinerary. Collectively, the kind of things a person would carry in a briefcase."
Garber didn't respond.
"He had a suit carrier," I said. "Green canvas, brown leather bindings. A buck gets ten he had a briefcase to match. His wife probably chose them both. Probably got them mail-order from L.L.Bean. Maybe for Christmas, ten years ago."
"And the briefcase wasn't there?"
"He probably kept his wallet in it too, when he was wearing Class As. As many medal ribbons as this guy had, it makes the inside pocket tight."
"So?"
"I think the hooker saw where he put his wallet after he paid her. Then they got down to business, and he croaked, and she saw a little extra profit for herself. I think she stole his briefcase."
Garber was quiet for a moment.
"Is this going to be a problem?" he asked.
"Depends what else was in the briefcase," I said.
Chapter Two
I put the phone down and saw a note my sergeant had left me: Your brother called. No message. I folded the note once and dropped it in the trash. Then I headed back to my quarters and got three hours' sleep. Got up again fifty minutes before first light. I was back at the motel just as dawn was breaking. Morning didn't make the neighborhood look any better. It was depressed and abandoned for miles around. And quiet. Nothing was stirring. Dawn on New Year's Day is as close as any inhabited place gets to absolute stillness. The highway was deserted. There was no traffic. None at all.
The diner at the truck stop was open but empty. The motel office was empty. I walked down the row to the last-but-one room. Kramer's room. The door was locked. I stood with my back to it and pretended I was a hooker whose client had just died. I had pushed his weight off me and dressed fast and grabbed his briefcase and I was running away with it. What would I do? I wasn't interested in the briefcase itself. I wanted the cash in the wallet, and maybe the American Express card. So I would rifle through and grab the cash and the card and ditch the bag itself. But where would I do that?
Inside the room would have been best. But I hadn't done it there, for some reason. Maybe I was panicking. Maybe I was shocked and spooked and just wanted to get the hell out, fast. So where else? I looked straight ahead at the lounge bar. That was probably where I was going. That was probably where I was based. But I wouldn't carry the briefcase in there. My co-workers would notice, because I was already carrying a big purse. Hookers always carry big purses. They've got a lot of stuff to haul around. Condoms, massage oils, maybe a gun or a knife, maybe a credit card machine. That's the easiest way to spot a hooker. Look for someone dressed like she's going to a ball, carrying a bag like she's going on vacation.
I looked to my left. Maybe I walked around behind the motel. It would be quiet back there. All the windows faced that way, but it was night and I could count on the drapes being closed. I turned left and left again and came out behind the bedrooms on a rectangle of scrubby weeds that ran the length of the building and was about twenty feet deep. I imagined walking fast and then stopping in deep shadow and going through the bag by feel. I imagined finding what I wanted and heaving the bag away into the darkness. I might have thrown it thirty feet.
I stood where she might have stood and scoped out a quarter circle. It gave me about a hundred and fifty square feet to check. The ground was stony and nearly frozen by overnight frost. I found plenty of stuff. I found trash and used needles and foil crack pipes and a Buick hubcap and a skateboard wheel. But I didn't find a briefcase.
There was a wooden fence at the rear of the lot. It was about six feet tall. I jacked myself up on it and looked over. Saw another rectangle of weeds and stones. No briefcase. I got down off the fence and walked onward and came up on the motel office from the back. There was a window made of dirty pebbled glass that I guessed let into the staff bathroom. Underneath it were a dozen trashed air conditioners all stacked in a low pile. They were rusty. They hadn't been moved in years. I walked on and came around the corner and turned left into a weedy gravel patch with a Dumpster on it. I opened the lid. It was three-quarters full of garbage. No briefcase.